You're no one without a Stalker

I’m bloody tired. I have been most of the day.
Yesterday evening was an emotional strain after my visit to the tattooist. Jesus - that hurt, but it’s looking damn good! So pretty...so subtle, yet noticeable if my hair is up – which it’s had to be today in order not to pull the colour off my new appendage.

Anyway, I’m running a bath right now and in a minute I’m going to get in it, before going to bed.
I need an early night. I’ve had a few nights of 5/6 hours sleep the past couple of days. HOOKED (the book... if you don’t know by now...tut..tut..) is taking me hostage once again, and I have some small details that need looking at before sending it back to the agent this coming Friday.

Hey ho... I do love the solitude of writing. It suits me a lot, but I see how easy it is to also become a recluse during the process. I have to make an effort to enjoy myself in other ways besides pinning myself to the laptop. But as I’m sure I’ve said a 1000 times before – and I’m about to make that 1001 – I am on a mission. Not world domination. Just to get this thing published, as soon as I can.

Let me tell you this thing that happened today... I was walking down a busy street and this large black, blacked-out beast of a BMW stopped in traffic and some bloke asked me if I wanted him to give me a lift... ”Ooh, go on then Mr Nutter, I’ll get in your car and you can drive me to the nearest derelict building and rape me before leaving me for dead, if you like... Yes, please let me in to your shiny new car.” I mean, come on... does that shit ever work? I’ve never once taken someone up on the offer of dinner, coffee, drinks , their number or lifts from off the street.
Not even back THEN. You know when... when I was a .... you know what.
So, this guy it has to be said asked politely so I half turned my head and half raised my lips and said ‘No thanks’ into the air. No eye contact.
I carried on walking and didn’t think anything more about it. I was just glad that I had a long top on knowing that he’d be checking my ass.
Next thing I turned down a road and the same flaming car speeded up besides me and stopped about 20 feet in front of where I was walking.
The guy got out of the car. All 6’5 of him. He must have been about 3 feet wide. Solid. Not wobble.
Oh fuck, I thought to myself.
“Hi. ... blah, blah, blah, I’d like to take you for a coffee blah, blah, blah....” – Coffee?? What the fuck? Does he know I don’t drink?

Then I realised - he doesn’t drink either, hence the suggestion of coffee. He was Muslim which was clear by his long beard and Arabian looks.
Anyway, I carried on walking after declining his offer of a lift, coffee, his number and dinner... and he walked along side me and beckoned his side-kick to fucking drive along side us.
Oh fuck. They’re going to bundle me into the bloody car, here, I was thinking.
I carried on walking – he carried on talking – offering me one of his cars, telling me that he feels like he knows me somehow and that he must have seen me in his dream – and get this: He said that he has ‘lots of women’ around him . I can believe it – he was a handsome chap . And he very kindly offered to ‘get rid of every one of them’ if he could be with me.

Oh god. I didn’t know what to do – so I told him I was going into a shop that we were approaching.
“I’ll wait here for you then.” he said.

“Please don’t. You’re freaking me out” I chirped. He was. Quite badly at this stage.

“Well let me have your number then”

“No”

“Let me have your number”

“No” Then me, being me, I decided that he was probably going to stab me cos I hadn’t given him my number... I live in London, OK, just cos he was dressed head to toe in Gucci, and God gave him good looks does not mean he’s not a nutter.

And that was proven when he insisted on giving me his number , Oh, and his email address which started with the word ‘Mad’. You see.

Now, he happens to be reading this , I just want to say to you Mr bearded bloke – ‘I’m only joking, I thought you were very charming and a very nice fellow, and maybe if you hadn’t hollered me in the street then followed me, only to tell me that you’ll ‘wait’ for me to leave the shop – then maybe, just maybe we could have had that coffee. But not in this life. Not now. Sorry.’